Of Fallen Three: A SuperWhoLock story
by Tengwarr
Summary: The angels have fallen- Sherlock is dead- The Doctor is dying- -What now?


Dean stood in the middle of a dark abandoned warehouse, a gun clinched in his right hand. Clouds passed over the silver moon outside, causing shadows to dance up near the top of the high walls. It happened to be the only source of light, so Dean had to squint, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

"Hello," he called out, drawing his eyebrows together. As he shuffled his feet forward carefully, he pulled out his phone to light his way, but the sudden luminous glow made spots float in front of his eyes.

"Sam?" He attempted to blink away the spots. There were no sounds—no signs of life or movement indicating anyone in the building with him. All of his senses were on high alert. A hard feeling of dread settled in his stomach as he dialed his brothers number then held the receiver up to his ear. A sudden piercing sound from behind made him jump, holding the gun up from instinct and dropping his phone. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he realized it was just his brothers phone, laying mere feet from where he had found himself. Confusion and fear played together on his features as he walked to his brothers cell, keeping the gun held at eye level.

"Sammy?" A sudden odor filled the Winchesters nose. It was a smell he had become familiar with over the years—reminding him of musty graveyard dirt and the cloak of darkness he had learned to hide in. The smell was gasoline.

A voice from behind Dean made him jump again, his finger hot on the trigger of the gun.

"Dean." The voice said, recognizably full of pain and sadness. Dean lowered his gun once he realized it was only Sam, though he didn't put it away. The smell of gasoline now burned his nose and itched his throat.

Thousands of questions filled the older Winchesters mind, but he kept his tongue tight and his words short. "Sam, what is going on? Where are we?"

From what Dean could see of the faint outline of Sam, he frowned, his already sunken in eyes thicker in his rotting skull. He looked sick—he looked dead. Sam held a hand up, indicating his brother to stop talking.

They stood in the warehouse for a few moments, the only thing separating them was the sound of water droplets pattering on the cement. The awkwardness was too much between them, so Dean strode forward and placed a hand on his brothers shoulder before he could deflect it, only to draw his hand back again from the wetness of his shirt.

"Are you bleeding?" Dean asked, worry and anger bubbling in his chest. Moments later he understood; his mouth hanging open in shock. Sam was covered in gasoline.

"Who did this to you?" The hunters keen green eyes scanned the area, looking for some sort of threat.

The younger brother spoke, his tone sharp and annoyed. "No one." He could hear a puff of breath escape his lips. "I am done, Dean. Everyone we love keeps dying around us and we can't do anything about it." Dean could now see the outline of his brother run a hand through his gas-soaked hair before continuing. "I am sick from trying to close the gates to Hell, the angels have fallen-" Sam made a swift move to his pocket, bringing something Dean could not see out. "I am just done, Dean. This way you wont have to worry about me anymore."

Suddenly, Dean understood. His mouth opened and his hand outstretched; but seconds before he could do anything, there was a faint flicking sound—a small spark turning into a hungry flame.

Dean could hear his brothers screams as his body flailed, sending embers of burnt cloth in every direction.  
The screams mixed of those of his mothers as a flashback played before his mind, and his body froze. There was nothing he could do as the screams ended, and his brother fell to the ground in a burnt heap—the smell of charred flesh and salty tears consumed his senses.

When Dean's eyes opened, there was no warehouse- and no burnt brother. He was laying on his back, his whole body covered in a thick sweat. He moved slowly, his brain fuzzy from the dream that had so easily consumed him as its own. Just as he sat up, Sam came into the room, rapping his knuckles twice on the door before pushing it open all the way.

"Hey Dean-" Sam's eyebrows pulled together with worry. "I heard you yelling."

Dean rubbed his face as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, avoiding the sunken look to his brothers features. The more he looked at them, the more distraught it made him- hoping for his brothers well being. He braced his hands on the edge of the bed before standing, pulling on some pants laying on the ground.

"Oh-uh, yeah. It was nothing." He picked up a plaid shirt, sniffed it, then threw it on the floor before looking for another. "How are you feeling, Sammy? Get any farther on your research yet?" Another shirt from across the room ended up being the one Dean slipped on before running his fingers through his short hair a couple times.

"Uh, not yet." his brother responded, leaning on the door frame. "Cas might, though. He didn't sleep last night, which is a surprise."

It honestly was a surprise. After the angels fell, Cas had seamed to sleep nonstop-going through a deep stage of depression. The Winchesters had let him stay with them, hoping he would possibly come out of it. The brothers knew better then most people though, that family was a pretty touching matter, and it took a while to get over it after they fell.


End file.
